


Fire Queen

by aggiepuff



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aegon VI Targaryen and Jon Snow are Siblings, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, An Attempted Coup, Balerion doesn't like Jon, Character Death Fix, Dead Rhaegar Targaryen, Drabbles, Dragon Queen Rhaenys, Elia Martell Lives, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, Growing Up, It's Game of Thrones, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Lyanna Stark Lives, Multi, Political Intrigue, Polyamory, Queen Rhaenys, Rhaenys Targaryen Lives, Rhaenys-centric, Sibling Bonding, Slice of Life, The best siblings, There Is Drama, but what did you expect, there is angst, treason was involved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2020-02-28 12:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 14,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18756226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aggiepuff/pseuds/aggiepuff
Summary: She lived.She lived and she grew and her mothers claimed the Iron Throne in her name.(Now taking Rhaenys-centric slife-of-life prompts)





	1. Age 3

**Age 3**

Rhaenys doesn’t remember her father, not really. A flash of white-gold, sparkling ruby, pale violet. She thinks he might look a little like Eggy or Jon, he probably looked a lot like Uncle Viserys, but she’s not sure. She knows he died defending her and Eggy and Jon when she was three, when Eggy was small, and before Jon came, but she doesn’t remember that time much.

She remembers her parents’ wedding though.

She remembers the crown of red roses her mother wove for her.

She remembers holding baby Eggy as her mother and father said serious words with giddy smiles.

She remembers thinking her mother was the most beautiful woman in the world, the silk of her scarlet dress soft, flowing through her tiny hands like running water.

She remembers her father smiling and smiling, too, because it had been so long since he was happy.

She remembers her wolf-mother beaming, stomach bigger than it should be.

She remembers her wolf-mother saying the words back.

She remembers Uncle Oberyn and Uncle Jaime wrapping a black and red ribbon around the joined hands of her spear-mother, dragon-father, and wolf-mother.

She remembers what they said, their words echoing through her: “Before the old gods and the new, I pronounce you one. May your love be blessed from this day until your last day.”


	2. Age 6

**Age 6**

They call her Little Flame, the Fire Queen. Her brothers are princes of the Seven Kingdoms. Aegon is Ice and Jaehaerys is Shadow.

Rhaenys understands why. Eggy has skin almost ice-white, with pale blond hair and pale violet eyes. Jon’s hair is black as night, with gray eyes like a star-filled sky. They totter across their room on shaky toddler legs. Together they are a winter night and she the fire they run to.

But John is the blood of the North and Rhaenys thinks there is ice in his veins, tempering their father’s fire. Aegon, though, is all fire and heat, temper fast to rise but quick to cool. Rhaenys loves them and wishes they are with her when she sits upon the Iron Throne in the cold hall.

Her wolf-mother stands at her side when a delegation from the North arrives. She squeezes Rhaenys’ shoulder gently before stepping down to embrace the tall man who bowed.

“Ned,” Lyanna says, “welcome to King’s Landing. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Rhaenys watches, kicking her little feet. She’s never heard her wolf-mother sound so happy save when she played with her and her brothers or kissed her spear-mother.

“Come,” Lyanna says, drawing the tall man up the dais, “meet your niece. Queen Rhaenys Martell Targaryen, the Fire of King’s Landing. Rhaenys, love, meet my brother, Ned Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North.”

Rhaenys likes the man’s gray eyes. He has a nice smile, too, and kneels before Rhaenys. “It is good to meet you, your Majesty,” he says. “I have a son about your age, perhaps a year younger, but you are much taller.”

Rhaenys grins. “I’m taller than my brothers,” she boasts.

“Soon you will grow taller than your mother, I’ll bet.”

She nods eagerly. “I will!” Her tooth wiggles and she points to it. “My tooth is loose, see? Has your son lost any teeth?”

Lyanna snorts but doesn’t scold, not like spear-mother would. Elia would say it is unseemly for a queen to point at her loose teeth, though Rhaenys can tell her mother is never actually angry. But Elia isn’t here. She is resting, something she needs often these days.

When Rhaenys asks if spear-mother is okay, a shadow always crosses wolf-mother’s face, but she smiles and says, “Your mother is as well as may be, simply tired from running after you and your brothers all the time.”


	3. Age 13

**Age 13**

Rhaenys angrily swipes away the tears. She is a queen. Queens don’t cry.

Stupid brothers. Stupid tradition. Leaving her to see the world like she cannot.

She glowers at her reflection in the looking glass. It is only three years. She can survive three years. And at the end of three years, she will go get them.

She is already planning her Royal Progress. It would be a name day gift to herself, she decides. It would wind through the Seven Kingdoms, starting south through the Stormlands to Dorne and then curving northward to the Reach, the Westerlands, the Riverlands and finally the North. A Royal Progress for her name day where she could collect her brothers from their fostering.

Balerion, huge and black, chirrups at her. Her mouth twitches and she reaches down to scratch behind his ears. He’s so big now, too big for her to lift.

“The Progress could end in a tourney,” she tells the cat. “A tourney at King’s Landing. I’ll be sixteen by then. A maiden, fair and true, and the champion will crown me Queen of Love and Beauty, just as father crowned Lyanna.”

“Are you ready to say goodbye?”

Rhaenys tosses her long braid and Balerion swipes lazily at the end brushing the ground. She straightens, turning to the door. “I am ready.”

Elia smiles a quiet smile, a knowing thing, as she ignores the tear tracks down her daughter’s cheeks. Turning, she calls down the hall, “She’s in here, boys.”

Jon leads Eggy into her solar. They’re dressed in riding leathers with swords strapped to their waists.

Rhaenys’ eyes sting with new tears and she swallows hard, forcing them back. She will not ruin her brothers’ big day.

“Well,” Eggy says, violet eyes sparkling eagerly, “this is it.”

Rhaenys smiles in the face of her baby brother’s excitement. “So you’re off to Dorne,” she says, stepping forward to wrap her arms around him. “Say hello to Uncle Oberyn for me, and Arianne. And beat Obara in a spar.”

Eggy pulls back. “Don’t worry, Obara won’t know what hit her.”

“Excellent.”

“Don’t I get a hug?”

Rhaenys turns and smiles at Jon. He hit his growth spurt and he’s almost as tall she is now, several inches taller than Aegon. Neither of them ever let Eggy forget it.

He meets her smile with a small one of his own, worry darkening his beautiful gray eyes.

“You’ll have fun with Uncle Ned,” she says, meeting his gaze in all earnesty, her own sorrow suddenly gone in the face of her baby brother’s fear, “and your cousin Robb. He’s been writing you for the past year. Weren’t you saying he’s been going on and on about taking you to all his favorite places? He’s so excited to finally meet you.”

Jon’s smile grows and he nods. “I’m excited to meet him, too.”

Rhaenys grins. "See?" she asks, wrapping him in a warm embrace.

“Are we ready?” Lyanna asks from the doorway. She wears riding leathers, too, the direwolf of House Stark worked into the leather at her shoulder. She intends to escort her son to her brother’s keep and the tears are back in Rhaenys’ eyes at the reminder.

Lyanna smiles at her, one of her rare gentle smiles. “Fear not, my daughter,” she says, striding forward to press a kiss to Rhaenys’ forehead. “I will return within a moon’s cycle.”

“Promise?” Rhaenys asks, voice small as it has not been since she was a child.

“Promise,” Lyanna says and Rhaenys believes her; her wolf-mother does not lie.

“Come, my love,” Elia says, looping her arm through Lyanna’s elbow and kissing the shorter woman softly. “The horses are ready and your escort is raring to go. Boys, escort your sister, would you?”

Eggy and Jon obediently flank her, Eggy on her right, Jon on her left, their arms linking into a chain. _Unbreakable,_ she thinks, looking at their connection.  _We are unbreakable._

Together, the Princess-Regents and their children make their way through the Red Keep to the courtyard where the escorts from Dorne and the North await them.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick heads up!  
> I am taking prompts for this drabble series. Not pairing prompts because I already have that worked out, but situations you'd like to see, that sort of thing--keep in mind these drabbles are all connected. Please leave your prompt in the comments or message me on tumblr at "aggiehufflepuff".
> 
> Thanks reading!


	4. Age 14

**Age 14**

Rhaenys’ eyes narrow at the little brat. “Are you _sure_ I cannot punch him in the face?”

“He’s a child,” Tyrion says but his green eyes sparkle as he takes a sip of wine.

“He might be a nightmare demon given human form,” Rhaenys suggested. Far below, in the royal gardens, the little blond monster says something to a passing servant. The woman’s face reddens in rage but she dare not speak her mind. She scurries away and even from her balcony Rhaenys can hear the twat’s jeering laugh.

“Your majesty, I implore you, if not for the realm then for me. My sister would have my entrails if harm befell her beloved Joffrey.”

“Harm is the least of what he deserves.”

“You won’t hear me arguing,” the imp says, “but her screeching would be unbearable.”

Rhaenys’ mouth twitches. Since coming to King’s Landing, the youngest Lannister has become her favorite of the lions. Even Jaime, whom she calls uncle, who has protected her all her life, and is second in her Queensguard, pales in comparison to the imp’s wickedly sharp tongue.

“Your sister hates her husband,” she muses.

“It’s quite possible,” agrees Tyrion.

“I will marry for love,” Rhaenys says fiercely, “as my mothers did.”

“An enviable thing,” Tyrion acknowledges. “Not all are so fortunate.”

“Why did the Lady Cersei marry him if she did not want him?”

Tyrion eyes her, carefully placing his goblet on the spindly legged table between them. “I believe it was duty, your grace.”

Rhaenys frowns. “What duty?”

“I believe,” he says slowly, surreptitiously looking around to see who might hear though Rhaenys does not notice, “that my dear sister married Robert Baratheon to make peace.”

“What peace did her marriage bring?”

“How much do you know of Robert’s Rebellion?”

“It was a year-long rebellion from 282 to 283,” she answers automatically. “It was lead by Lord Robert Baratheon who was angered when my mother, Lyanna, ran away to marry my father, Prince Rhaegar, and my mother, Princess Elia. It ended when my mother killed the Mad King and claimed the Iron Throne as my Princess-Regent.” She frowns. “There was something about the Faith Militant, I think.”

Tyrion nods. “Yes, the Faith was angered that Rhaegar chose two wives as they believe polyamory is a sin. Of course,” he amends quickly, “polyamory for love and with the participants’ enthusiastic agreement is completely natural. But there were rumors that Princess Lyanna was kidnapped and forced into the marriage.”

Rhaenys nods. “I know this part. Only an aptly timed raven stopped mother’s father and brothers from siding with the Rebels.”

“It was actually two aptly timed ravens,” Tyrion says. “One to the princess’ father and brothers, one to my lord father from my brother Jaime, informing him of his loyalty to the Princess-Regent Elia Martell Targaryen and the new queen: you.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“My brother is quite loyal-hearted. My father could not bear the thought of fighting his own son, so he turned on Robert Baratheon and the Rebellion failed.”

“That doesn’t explain why Lady Cersei married him, though.”

“To keep a rein on the Baratheons,” Tyrion explains. “My father has his claws in the Stags, now. They spent so much of their fortune on the Rebellion, they survive on Lannister gold alone.”

Rhaenys is just learning the ways of the court. She’s only now becoming familiar with the way power moves in the Seven Kingdoms, but she’s not sure she likes the idea of the wealthiest family in Westeros allied with the man who hoped to kill her and did kill her father. She trusts Jaime, she likes Tyrion, and Cersei seems well enough though cold. But she doesn’t trust, like, or think well of Tywin Lannister.

“What if your sister wasn’t married to Lord Robert?” she asks, forcing herself to sound idle.

“Well,” he says slowly, “I expect she would be eternally grateful.”

“And she is your father’s first-born.”

“She is.”

“Do you want to be Lord of Casterly Rock?”

“No,” Tyrion says after a moment, “not especially. I wouldn’t make a good lord.”

“What would you be, if you could be anything?”

“A connoisseur of fine wine and beautiful women.”

Someone gasps. Rhaenys turns in her seat. Her chief handmaiden, the dark haired and exotically lovely Shae, scowls at Tyrion. “You mustn't say such things,” she scolds the young lion, her usually soft accent thick.

“Who is this now?” Tyrion asks, eyeing Shae appreciatively.

“Leave Shae alone,” Rhaenys orders him. “What is it you need, Shae?”

Shae gives the imp one last glare. “Her highness requests you join her for the afternoon luncheon.”

Rhaenys sighs. “Will the green-eyed nightmare be there?”

“I do not know, your Grace.”

“Alright. Please tell my mother I’ll be there in a moment.”

Shae dips a quick curtsy, shooting Tyrion a disapproving look before leaving the solar.

“Time to rejoin the world,” Tyrion says dryly.

As they walk through the Red Keep Rhaenys glances down the shortest Lannister. Somehow, she cannot see him as Lord of Casterly Rock. He’s clever and quick, but he has his vices, just like any man.

“If you were not your father’s heir, would you really mind?” she asks.

Tyrion frowns. “You grace, what are you thinking?”

“Nothing, really. Just...wondering.”


	5. Age 14, Part 2

**Age 14**

When Tyrion tells Rhaenys the story of Joffrey’s great, scarred bodyguard, Rhaenys’ gut churns.

“I want The-Mountain-That-Rides unknighted,” she announces at dinner.

Elia blinks at her. “What?”

“Ser Gregor Clegane, The-Mountain-That-Rides. I want him unknighted and held accountable for his cruelty.”

Lyanna and Elia exchange looks. “Have you heard something?” Lyanna asks.

“Yes,” Rhaenys says, nodding firmly. “The Hound’s face was burned by his brother’s hand.”

“The Hound’s face,” Elia says carefully, “was burned when he was a child. If it was Ser Gregor who did it, then he would have been a child, too.”

Rhaenys scowls. “I cannot imagine a child willing to hold his brother’s face to a fire until it was half melted is a man without sin. If I cannot punish him for The Hound’s face, then I will punish him for something else. Regardless, I want him gone. He is a disgrace to all knights.”

Elia and Lyanna exchange another look. “You want to make an example of him,” Lyanna guesses.

Rhaenys nods. “Yes.” She’s thought about it all day, ever since Tyrion told her what happened to the Hound. She cannot abide a man so cruel wearing the shield and mantle of knights. Knights are supposed to be good and strong and brave and kind. They are charged with the protection of all, from the highest lord to the weakest child.

“The knight’s oath must mean something,” Rhaenys says. “It _must_. It cannot be just pretty words. Any knight found guilty of breaking their oath must be stripped of their title, regardless of rank.”

Elia sits back in her chair. “That...is a fair point.”

“We will need to bring this to the Small Council,” Lyanna points out.

Elia nods. “Yes, we will.” She looks at Rhaenys. “It’s time you join us in the Small Council so you will bring this to them, with our support.”

* * *

“Aren’t you going to do something?” Rhaenys demands, angrily rubbing her elbow.

“I am paid to protect you from abuse, not your own stupidity,” Sandor informs her.

Rhaenys scowls. “You’re the worst bodyguard ever.”

Sandor’s scarred face twists into the semblance of a smile. “As you say, your Grace.”

Rhaenys rolls her eyes. “Don’t do that. Obedient servant doesn’t suit you.”

A wicked gleam sparks in the Hound’s eyes. “As you--”

“Oh, shut up.”

Despite her tone, Rhaenys smothers a grin. Hiring Sandor away from the Lannisters--with Tyrion’s and Jamie’s blessings--must be her best decision to date.


	6. Age 15

**Age 15**

“Be the bigger person,” Elia implors her wife.

“I can’t,” Lyanna quips, “I’m only 5’3”.”

Rhaenys smothers a giggle with her hand.

Elia gives her a sharp look. “Don’t encourage her.”

Rhaenys tries to cool her expression into stoic seriousness but it’s hard. Lyanna’s gray eyes gleam with the promise of mischief and she eyes Tywin Lannister over the rim of her goblet.

“It’s hard not to admire Father’s gumption,” Tyrion observes, sidling up to the royal family.

“I wouldn’t call it gumption,” Lyanna says.

“Then what would you call it?”

“Unsolicited political maneuvering that will not end well if he pushes,” Elia mutters darkly.

“Why, my dear Princess, I do believe you sound almost irritated. What has my father done to earn your ire?”

“Your father,” Lyanna says venomously, quiet enough so only they four on the dais can hear, “suggested a romantic liaison between yourself and Her Majesty.”

Tyrion’s eyebrows rise. “Your Majesty,” he says, turning to Rhaenys on the Iron Throne, “why didn’t you tell me we were courting? Had I known, I would have brought you a gift.”

Rhaenys flashes Tyrion a grin.

“Don’t,” Elia sighs, bringing up her long fingers to rub her temple.

"Don't worry, love," Lyanna presses a kiss to Elia's cheek, "I'll make sure the nasty lion won't be back."

Elia's eyes close and she breaths in deep, releasing her breath in a tired sigh.


	7. Age 15, Part 2

**Age 15, Part 2**

Rhaenys’ eyebrow arches. “You’re still alive.”

Aegon grins, white teeth flashing in the bright Dornish sun. He urges his mount forward. “Don’t sound so disappointed. I might think you don't like me.”

Rhaenys tries for a moment longer to keep her face stern but the wind ruffles Aegon's hair, pushing a single curl over his forehead. Memory of always pushing that curl back when Eggy was small rushes to the surface and Rhaenys breaks into a grin. She reaches for him from the back of her palfrey and Argon leans down from his destrier, their hands firmly grasping each other. For a moment the entourages fade away and it is just them.

“It is so good to see you,” Rhaenys whispers.

“It is good to see you, too,” Aegon returns. “I've missed you.”

Relief washes over Rhaenys. There is so much love in Aegon. She had feared something would have changed these last three years, that something would have broken. But Aegon is still her beloved little brother and she his adored big sister.

Almost all is right in their world. All they are missing is Jon.

* * *

The formal introductions are done and Rhaenys shifts impatiently on her makeshift throne. The cool breeze washes over the Water Gardens, ruffling the hem of her golden Dornish dress, a gift from Uncle Oberyn’s beloved paramour Ellaria. Rhaenys plays with the silken skirt, letting the soft material flow through her hands. It’s Dornish silk and glitters vaguely in the sun.

“Your Majesty,” Oberyn says, approaching her throne.

Rhaenys turns, smiling. “No need to be so formal, Uncle,” she says, “it’s only family here.” She waves to the gathered Martells, Aegon, Lyanna, and his five daughters who lounge in the pavillion. The rest of her court, tired from the journey south, have retreated to their guest quarters.

Oberyn smiles. “Of course, little flame. And since it is only family, I wanted to give you your birthday present.”

“But I don’t turn sixteen for another month,” Rhaenys protests even as she straightens eagerly, looking Oberyn up and down, searching for her present.

“I know, dear one,” he says, “but I think this gift is best given when surrounded by family.”

Rhaenys grins. “Well, if you insist.”

Oberyn waves and Obara steps forward, carrying a small, ornately carved chest of dark red wood, the arched lid inlaid with delicate, curving gold. She presents it to Rhaenys, dark eyes sparkling mischievously.  Rhaenys glances between the chest and Oberyn, smiling eagerly.

“Go on,” Nymeria calls from a lounger.

Rhaenys bites her lip and slowly, carefully lifts the lid.

She gasps, covering her mouth in shock. “By the gods.”

Nestled on a bed of sand, a scarlet dragon’s egg glitters in the Dornish sun, the surface like tiny scales, edges seeming alive with hints of liquid gold and silver.

“Where…? How…?”

Oberyn grins, alive with pleasure at having surprised her.

Lyanna, hearing Rhaenys’ shock, sweeps across the pavilion to peer over her shoulder. “Oh, Oberyn,” she breathes. “Where did you find a dragon’s egg?”

“The Hellholt,” Oberyn says. “It was found in the dungeons, next to the armour Meraxes wore when he and the first Queen Rhaenys fell.”

Rhaenys’ mouth drops. “It was carried by Queen Rhaenys the First?”

“So they histories at the Hellholt tell us.”

Tears spring to Rhaenys’ eyes. “And you’re giving it to me?”

Oberyn kneels before her, clasping her hands, meeting her watery gaze with all the sincerity and love in his heart. “An egg of fire for our Fire Queen.”


	8. Age 15, Part 3

**Age 15, Part 3**

Myrcella eyes Trystane from her mother's side with all the shyness expected of her twelve years.

An idea flickers to life in Rhaenys’ head. “Myrcella!” She calls.

Myrcella glances nervously up at Cersei who nods. Slowly, Myrcella approaches where Rhaenys lounges beneath the silken canopy, the hem of her pale pink drink just brushing the floor as she walks. Beside Rhaenys, Trystane shoots his cousin a fearful glare but before he can protest, Myrcella is within hearing distance.

The little lion curtsies beautifully, far more graceful than Rhaenys at her age. “Yes, your Grace?”

Rhaenys smiles at her. “Myrcella, may I introduce my cousin, Prince Trystane of Dorne. Trystane, this is Lady Myrcella Baratheon.”

Trystane shoots her one last panicked look as he quickly stands, bowing over Myrcella's hand. “It is an honor to meet you,” he says, voice only barely breaking with nerves.

Where her older brother is all the world's nightmares given flesh, Myrcella Baratheon is sweet, kind, gentle--and far more clever than she is given credit for. Her green eyes flash as they dart up from the marble floor. She curtsies again at Trystane's greeting, gaze finally meeting his. “The honor is mine, your highness.”

Rhaenys suppresses a smile. Cersei, aloof and cold though she is, has trained her daughter well in courtly graces. “Trystane,” she says, “why don't you show Lady Myrcella around the Water Gardens? It'll be much more interesting than hanging around here.”

Myrcella flushes a lovely pink and Trystane looks torn between panic and excitement.

“Shae,” Rhaenys calls over her shoulder; as always, the older woman appears seemingly out of nowhere, “would you please chaperone my cousin and Lady Myrcella through the Water Gardens.”

Shae curtsies. “Of course, my lady.”

Rhaenys turns back to Trystane and Myrcella. “Go on, now,” she says, waving her hand. “Go before your are trapped in discussions of the harvest and the effect of rainfall on floodplains.”

Trystane swallows hard but offers his arm to Myrcella who accepts it gracefully. Together, the two disappear through the maze that is the Water Gardens, Shae trailing respectfully behind.

Rhaenys watches them go, then her attention is caught by Cersei who looks thunderous. With a sigh, Rhaenys stands. Around her, the various lords and ladies scramble to rise as well but Rhaenys makes shooing motions for them to return to their seats. “Continue on, my friends,” she says, “I need merely to stretch my legs for a moment.”

As casually as she can, Rhaenys strolls across the pavilion to where Cersei stands, pretending ignorance of the eyes that track her. “Lady Cersei,” she greets the taller woman, “walk with me, would you?”

For all it's phrased as a request, Cersei knows a royal command. “Of course, your Grace,” she says with a small tilt of her head.

The silence stretches heavy between them as they stroll through the gardens. The trickle of water, the humming of insects, the chirping of birds, and the murmur of voices fill the air. Rhaenys’ skin prickles--she's never been good at silence--and she carefully considers how to break the tension.

“What are your intentions with my daughter?” Cersei asks abruptly.

Rhaenys blinks, surprised. “Nothing yet,” she says honestly.

Cersei snorts and takes a healthy sip of her wine. “Don't lie to me. I saw how you pushed my Myrcella towards the little Dornish prince.”

Rhaenys wants to sigh with irritation even as relief washes over her. So it is to be blunt honesty. She can work with that.

“I have no plans for Myrcella yet,” she repeats, “but I will, in the future, encourage a match with Dorne as I believe she and my cousin are well-suited.”

“I am not sending my daughter away,” Cersei snaps.

“I would not ask you to,” Rhaenys quickly reassures her. “I would invite Trystane to King's Landing where he and Myrcella may get to know each other; where you would be there to guide your daughter in the ways of men and women, as any mother should.”

Cersei's poison green eyes narrow at Rhaenys. “And why would you do such a thing?”

Anxiety flashes through Rhaenys even as she says, “You hate your husband, do you not? You would be rid of him, if you could?”

Cersei blinks, taken aback by the sudden shift in topic. Rhaenys takes advantage of her surprise, pressing on. “What would you give to be free of him? To be declared your father's heir rather than just another of his pawns, your children legitimized as Lannisters rather than the heirs of a tertiary branch of an impoverished House?”

“Father would never allow it.”

“He would have to if the Crown decreed it and there were no others.”

“Do you plan to kill my brothers?”

“No, merely take them out of the line of succession. Ser Jaime has already done so by joining the Queensguard.”

“And what of Tyrion?” 

“Tyrion will one day be my Master of Coin and he really has no interest in Casterly Rock. I hardly think he will be difficult to persuade.”

“You seem to have this all planned,” Cersei sneers. “What do you get out of it?”

Rhaenys forced her face into a politey bland expression. “Is that really important? If you agree, you will be free of Robert Baratheon.”

“And what, exactly, am I agreeing to?”

Rhaenys had thought long and hard about this part of her plan. It could not look as though the Crown--she--was interfering without provocation and she had finally settled on a plan. “I cannot imagine that Robert Baratheon is an especially good husband,” she says carefully. “He does not strike me as a caring man and,” she pauses delicately, “I worry that he has let his knight's oath fall by the wayside. If that were true, I could not, in good conscience, allow such a man to continue as a Lord of any standing, let alone be married to a highborn lady.”

Cersei's face suddenly smooths to carefully blankness. “No,” she says slowly, “such a man should not be allowed to continue.”

Rhaenys sighs, stopping to look out over a bubbling fountain. “Of course, I would need proof. Indisputable and ironclad. If such proof were presented to the Court it could not be overlooked.”

The silence hangs heavy between them, broken only by the sound of running water and the rustle of wind through the trees. Rhaenys forces her face to stay impassive. Everything is on Cersei now. She only hopes to not regret trusting the Lioness.

“You have given me much to think of,” Cersei says finally. “I believe I will withdraw to do so.”

“Thank you for your company,” Rhaenys replies. 

Cersei dips a quick curtsies and Rhaenys nods a dismissal, watching her retreat through the gardens.

“What was that all about?” Aegon asks, stepping from behind Rhaenys.

Rhaenys smiles, a small thing but predatory. “Hunting,” she says breezily.

“Hunting what, lions or stags?”

“Both.”


	9. Age 15, Part 4

**Age 15, Part 4**

Rhaenys reins her horse up. In the meadow on the side of the road a gaggle of children laugh and chase each other through the grass, their ages seeming to range from two tiny nine-year-olds to a chubby eleven-year-old tripping over his own feet.

The pack scatters away from the chubby boy until he finally manages to place a hand on the back of one lanky brunet. Then, they all run away from the brunet until he touches the arm of blonde little girl and it goes on.

She has never seen a game quite like this. There aren’t many children in the palace, none her own age growing up beyond her brothers, and she has the sudden longing to do something childish and fun after such a draining Small Council meeting where all anyone wanted to talk about was her potential nuptials.

Rhaenys dismounts, shaking out her riding skirts. Beside her, still astride his massive black destrier, Sandor glares down at her. “What are you doing?”

Rhaenys ignores his question. “Just hold Tillo,” she says, passing up her tall, blood bay gelding’s reins.

Sandor takes them, still grumbling, and Rhaenys approaches the children.

“Hello,” she calls, moving slowly so as not to startle them into flight.

The group stops, all turning to stare at her.

Rhaenys halts still a little ways off and smiles cautiously. “Hi,” she says, “what game are you playing?”

A tiny brunette girl with bright gray eyes and a stubborn chin looks her up and down. “Why do you want to know?”

Rhaenys blinks. She doesn’t think she’s ever heard anyone speak to her like that. It’s...refreshing. “I’ve never seen it before,” she says honestly. “Would you mind if I joined you?”

The little girl exchanges looks with her friends. “Alright,” she says slowly, looking back at Rhaenys, “but you have to be the dragon.”

Rhaenys’ lips twitch. “The dragon?”

The little girl nods, energy rising. “Yeah, you’re the dragon and you have to catch someone and then they’re the dragon.”

Rhaenys nods. “Makes sense.” She straightens. “Okay, I will count to three?”

The children beam.

“One…” Rhaenys leans forward, preparing to run. “Two…” The children shift away from her. “Three!”

The game comes to an abrupt end with the children suddenly charging her, led by that tiny brunette terror.

“Get her!” the little girl yells and Rhaenys laughs as the whole pack collides with her chest and she toppels.

She lands in the waist-high grass with a thud and the children pile on, the littlest girl reaching for Rhaenys’ ribs.

Rhaenys shrieks, writhing way from the tickling fingers, the children’s triumphant laughter filling the air.

“Alright,” Rhaenys gasps, squirming away from the dog pile, “I yield! I yield!” Sweat dampens the collar of her shirt and grass smears the legs of her riding skirt.

“What’s going on here?” a loud, boisterous voice calls from the other side of the meadow.

Rhaenys turns, still sprawled across the grass, a lock of dark hair falling across her face. A handsome boy, maybe fifteen, trots his pretty gray from the edge of the forest, red-brown curls bouncing, smile wide.

Sandor suddenly appears between Rhaenys and the boy, maneuvering Stranger to block his view. “Tha’s close enough,” he growls.

The boy’s eyes widen. Behind him, another horse trots from the treeline, another big gray, carrying a pale, black haired boy in Northern dress with familiar gray eyes.

Rhaenys scrambles to her feet. “Jon!”

The black haired boy starts then stares. “Rae?”

“Jon!” Rhaenys darts past Sandor as Jon dismounts. She crashes into his embrace, breathing in deep the scent of leather and pine and something uniquely Jon. “I missed you,” she whispers into his shoulder.

Jon returns her hug just as tightly. “I missed you, too,” he whispers into her hair. He pulls back. “What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the Progress?”

Rhaenys scowls, shoving her hair back from her face. “I had to get away. I know, I know we’re supposed to be at Winterfell this afternoon but the Small Council decided to come and before moving camp they spent the _entire morning_ talking at me, Jon. Talking about marriage and how I need a King to rule for me and--and--I just couldn’t be there any longer so I grabbed Sandor and came ahead.”

Jon’s gray eyes soften. “I’m sorry, Rae.”

Rhaenys leans her forehead on Jon’s shoulder, the tension in her shoulders suddenly releasing. Jon is her soft brother, her sympathetic ear. He breaths kindness from his soul and Rhaenys missed him terribly.

The soft clearing of a throat interrupts their moment. Rhaenys immediately straightens, the weight of her position returning. Turning to the other boy, she glances between him and Jon expectantly.

Jon flushes. “Sorry, Robb. Rhaenys, may I introduce my cousin Robb Stark of Winterfell. Robb, my sister, Rhaenys Martell Targaryen, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

Rhaenys holds out her hand, expression impassive. “A pleasure.”

Robb clasps her hand with his large, callused one, sweeping a deep bow, blue gaze eyeing her appreciatively, lips brushing the back of her hand. “The pleasure is all mine.”

Rhaenys’ insides twist and she’s grateful for her dark skin hiding her blush.

The little brunette hellion who led the children’s charge suddenly appears at Robb’s side. Jon grins at her. “And you’ve already met another of my cousins: Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

Rhaenys gratefully pulls her hand from Robb’s, not sure what to do with the twisting in her gut. She turns to the little hellion eyeing her suspiciously and smiles. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Arya.”

Arya looks her up and down, a very different look from her brother’s. “You don’t look like a queen.”

“Arya,” Robb snaps.

Rhaenys ignores Robb, glancing down at her skirt and shirt streaked with dirt and green grass stains. “No, I suppose I don’t. But, then, you don’t look like a lady.”

Arya grins. “You’re pretty good at dragon chase.”

“Is that why you led an army against me?”

“Couldn’t let you win,” the little girl says with a shrug.

Rhaenys laughs. It’s been too long since someone has treated her with such irreverence, if they ever did. “Lady Arya,” she says, “I think you and I will be great friends.”


	10. Age 15, Part 5

**Age 15, Part 5**

“This is not something you can ignore.”

“You try my patience, Lord Baelish.” Rhaenys cringes at Lyanna’s tone. She knows when her mother sounds like that it’s best to seek shelter.

Petyr Baelish must sense his danger. “I apologize, your Highness,” he says. “I simply--”

“You simply wished to further your own agenda by bringing this up here and now,” Lyanna growls. “Your suggestion has been noted and discarded. Her Majesty will marry when Her Majesty sees fit.”

Relief washes over Rhaenys and she quickly leaves before she is found spying.

 _Her Majesty will marry when Her Majesty sees fit_.

The relief at that declaration is almost overwhelming. Tears blur her vision and she quickly weaves her way through the ancient castle of Winterfell to the Godswood. At the center, the weirwood tree stands tall, the blood red leaves beautiful against the clear blue sky.

Rhaenys plops onto the dying grass at the base of the weirwood, uncaring of dirt on her skirt. Her gaze fixes, unseeing, on the red leaves.

The Small Council has been after her to marry for what seems like ages, ever since her mothers declared she would not marry one or both of her brothers. She remember that day and the giddy excitement that ran through her veins.

_“Incest breeds madness,” Elia said._

_“Madness is unacceptable in royalty,” Lyanna said._

_“Sanity and good leadership are far more important than bloodlines,” Elia said._

_“The age of inbreeding is over,” Lyanna said._

Rhaenys loves her brothers more dearly than she loves anyone or anything else in all the world but the relief in knowing that she is no longer expected to marry one or both of them is palpable.

Still, that declaration had opened the floodgates. Lords from across the Seven Kingdoms vie for her mothers’ attention, presenting son after son at Court. Even unpleasant Roose Bolton had legitimized his bastard son Ramsay because he was Rhaenys’ age.

Rhaenys shudders at the memory of the glint in the Bolton boy’s eyes. He might not be a product of incest but there is madness in him all the same.

A twig snaps at the entrance to the clearing and Rhaenys jumps.

A young, red haired girl, twelve or thirteen, peers at her from beneath the archway. Realizing Rhaenys has spotted her, she quickly dips a pretty curtsy. “I’m sorry, your Highness,” she says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Rhaenys smiles. “That’s quite alright. Lady Sansa, yes?”

Sansa flushes. “Yes, your Highness.”

“Come,” Rhaenys pats the grass beside her, “sit with me.”

Sansa approaches, eyeing the grass dubiously. Still, Rhaenys is queen and the oldest Stark daughter is too much a lady to refuse. She settles daintily on the grass, spreading her pale blue skirts as Rhaenys had not bothered to do.

“Tell me, Lady Sansa, how old are you now?”

“Twelve, your Majesty, almost thirteen.”

“Really? You are quite the beautiful young lady.”

Sansa flushes. “Thank you, your Majesty.”

Rhaenys smiles, leaning back on her elbows. “Where would you go, Lady Sansa, if you could go anywhere in the world?”

“Your Majesty?”

“Indulge me. I am feeling fanciful this morning.”

Sansa smiles. “I would go to King’s Landing, your Majesty.”

Rhaenys raises an eyebrow. “Would you, really?”

Sansa nods firmly. “I would.”

“Well,” Rhaenys says slowly, “I suppose that is not such an unreachable dream.”


	11. Age 16

**Age 16**

Black pennants with her family’s blood red dragon snap in the brisk autumn air. Tillo tosses his head, black mane catching in the breeze.

“A fine day for a tourney,” Aegon grumbles beside her, pulling his fur lined cloak tighter.

“Look at the sky, Eggy! It could snow any minute!”

“I grew up in the desert. I don’t know what weather is, let alone snow.”

Jon and Rhaenys exchange unimpressed looks.

“Really, Eggy?” Rhaenys asks.

“I miss the desert.”

Rhaenys sighs, deep and long suffering. “Eggy, brother, I love you very much but it is my birthday and if you do not cheer up, I will send you to The North.”

“Cruelty is unbecoming.”

“Perhaps,” Jon says blandly, “but it does work.”

* * *

Rhaenys cheers from the royal box as the judge holds Robb Stark’s hand high. Behind him, Robb’s winning arrow still quivers in the target.

“I declare Robb Stark winner of the archery tournament,” Ser Barristan calls. A squire trots onto the field, carrying a woven crown of pink and white roses. Ser Barristan takes the laurel and places it in Robb Stark’s hand. “You may crown your Queen of Love and Beauty.”

Rhaenys’ gut churns. Anxiety wells up deep in her chest. _Will he give it to me?_

Robb Starks’ deep blue eyes meet hers.

Rhaenys bites her lip.

He strides across the field, gaze fixed on the royal box. Rhaenys glances nervously at Lyanna beside her. Lyanna smiles, jerking her head encouragingly. Rhaenys turns back to the field.

Robb Stark stands before her, holding up the crown, intense blue-gray eyes fixed on Rhaenys. "A crown for the Queen who is the greatest Beauty in the Seven Kingdoms," he says clearly and the crowd erupts.

Rhaenys takes the laurel amidst the cheers, cheeks hot though her smile remains politely gracious. "You are too kind," she says, and places it on her head.

Were it possible, the noise of the crowd grows. Rhaenys settles back in her seat, gaze tracking Robb Stark as he leaves the field. Just outside the pitch Jon waits for him, shaking his head and smiling wryly. He says something to Robb and Robb shoves at him.

Lyanna leans towards Rhaenys. "That is an interesting development," she says.

"It's my birthday," Rhaenys says, unconsciously adjusting her flower crown, "the winners are supposed to crown me Queen of Love and Beauty."

Lyanna snorts. "If you say so."

* * *

Elia eyes her family. “You are all remarkably well behaved tonight,” she says slowly. “What did you do?”

Aegon blinks innocently, expression bland. Jon sips from his wine, not meeting her eyes. Rhaenys pretends not to have heard, focusing on the crowd below the dais. Lyanna presses her lips together, fighting a smile.

“Jon,” Elia focuses on her youngest son, frowning.

Jon cracks like a fresh egg. “It was Rhaenys’ idea.”

“Traitor.”

Elia closes her eyes, rubbing her temple. “What did you do?”

“Nothing bad, I swear!”

Elia levels cool brown eyes at her daughter. “It is your birthday,” she says, finally, “and for that I will not press, but if I find you have done irreparable damage…”

“Mamma!” Rhaenys gasps, hand to her chest, “I would never!”

Jon snorts.

“Excuse me,” a new voice breaks in. The royal family turns.

A handsome young man, roughly sixteen, stands below the dais, a single curl of his sandy blond hair falling across his forehead. He smiles, teeth white, and dark eyes warm, one strong hand leaning on an ornately carved cane capped by a golden rose. On his arm, an astoundingly pretty girl of thirteen gives them the same white smile.

The young man bows. “Your Majesty, your Highnesses. I hope you are faring well.”

“Lord Willas,” Elia says, “how lovely to see you again. And who is your lovely companion?”

Willas smiles at the young girl. “Your Majesty, your Highnesses, may I present my sister, Lady Margaery Tyrell.”

Rhaenys looks the young lady over. Lady Margaery's dusky brown hair falls in gentle waves down her back, the provocative cut of her blue and gold gown flattering her willowy figure. She curtsies deeply, blue eyes lowering, dark lashes brushing her cheeks.

"It is an honor to meet you," she says, her voice like a melody.

Rhaenys likes Willas. He’s smart, well-read, and one of the kindest men at Court. Hopefully his sister is much the same.

"Welcome to Court, Lady Margaery," she says, smiling. "Allow me to introduce my mothers, Princess Elia and Princess Lyanna; and my brothers, Prince Aegon and Prince Jaehaerys."

Aegon is the first to step forward, his pale lavender eyes wide and admiring. He catches Margaery's hand, bringing it to his lips. "Surely Highgarden is missing it's loveliest rose," he says. "Will we have the pleasure of your company long?"

Rhaenys closes her eyes. _The Mother preserve me._ She glances at Jon.

Jon's lips twist, firmly pressed together, and his shoulders almost shake with suppressed laughter. Rhaenys swallows hard, forcing down her own giggles.

The musicians being to play a slow, waltzing tune but Aegon is too enraptured. Beside Rhaenys, Elia clears her throat. Aegon glances at her and she tilts her head towards the musicians' gallery.

He flushes bright pink, quickly turning back to Margaery, whose hand he has yet to release. "Lady Margaery," he says, voice almost cracking with nerves, "if I may interest you in a dance?"

Once Lord Willas bids them goodbye Rhaenys can't help herself.

"Bloody hell," she giggles into her hand, watching Aegon lead Lady Margaery across the floor.

"Did you see his face?" Jon giggles back, unable to stop himself.

Rhaenys deepens her voice, twisting her face and lifting her arms in an attempt to mimic muscles. "Highgarden is missing it's loveliest rose." She laughs. "Of course, it's true, Lady Margaery is lovely, but that _line!_ "

"He must have practiced," Jon agrees.

"Stop it, you two," Lyanna scolds even as the corners of her mouth twitch. "At least Aegon has a partner. I don't see anyone clamoring for either of your hands."

Rhaenys rolls her eyes. "Jon is too much of a wall flower to ask someone to dance, Mother," she points out, "and I'm the Queen. No one wants to dance with the Queen."

"On the contrary, your Majesty," Ser Jamie says, appearing from seemingly nowhere, "I would very much like to dance with the Queen."

Rhaenys beams, taking his proffered hand. "I am more than happy to accept, Uncle Jamie."


	12. Age 16, Part 2

**Age 16, Part 2**

“She’s crying,” Tyrion hisses, panicked, “what do I do?”

“Go comfort her,” Rhaenys hisses back, eyeing Shae in her lovely blush gown, face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking.

Tyrion swallows hard, looking frantically up at her. “How do I do that?”

“I don’t know! Start with hugs?”

“With what?” Tyrion squeaks.

“Hugs!” Rhaenys mimes wrapping her arms around an invisible person.

Tyrion scowls. “Yes, I know what a hug is! But a  _ hug _ ?”

Rhaenys shrugs. “They’re comforting.”

“Well, yes, but look at me. I mean…” Tyrion turns mournful green eyes back to the upset handmaiden, half hidden by large, branching crepe myrtles. 

“I see you, Lord Tryion,” Rhaenys says, leveling the young lion with a serious violet gaze, “and so does she. Go to her.”

Tyrion shuffles his feet but he goes. A moment later, Shae presses her face into his shoulder, wrapping her arms around him. Slowly, hesitantly, Tyrion returns the embrace, whispering words of comfort Rhaenys cannot hear.

Rhaenys leaves them in the garden.


	13. Age 17

**Age 17**

Rhaenys does not want to be here. The wind pushes at her back, carrying the scent of brine and sand, whipping her hair across her face.

Dragonstone is black rock and sharp angles on a desolate island, the castle rising high above the jagged cliffs, its construction foreign and strange.

Rhaenys has never been here though it is her House’s ancestral seat. There are too many ghosts and they weigh on her shoulders. But she needs to be here. It’s been over ten years since the siege, since the disappearance.

“We are ready,” Aegon says behind her.

Rhaenys turns. Her brother holds out his arm, offering balance as she climbs into the waiting dinghy.

The sea is choppy, the water a stormy gray, reflecting the sky. Rhaenys keeps her eyes on the castle, growing larger with every stroke of the oars.

When the dinghy finally reaches land Rhaenys trembles, a strange mixture of excitement and fear churning her gut.

Aegon steps out first then lifts her out. Her boots touch sand and she stands for a moment, facing away from the great black fortress. Aegon squeezes her hand, a reassurance that he is there. Rhaenys swallows hard, wondering, not for the first time, how he is so calm.

Dragonstone is their father’s seat but neither of them have ever been here before. Elia and Lyanna wouldn’t bring them here, not after the Greyjoy Rebellion.

The Greyjoy Fleet had surrounded the Targaryen home and in the mayhem and fear, the Prince and Princess of Dragonstone had disappeared.

Rhaenys remembers little Daenerys crawling across the floor with Aegon and Jon. She remembers running to Viserys who was four years her senior and he always gave the best hugs and let her play with his white-blond hair.

Rhaenys was only six years old when her aunt and uncle were stolen and their mother killed. And while Elia’s and Lyanna’s justice had been swift and finite, the scars on their family were indelible.

Still, Aegon wishes to make Dragonstone his home and so Rhaenys must grow accustomed to visiting the bleak fortress.

"Are you ready?" Aegon whispers so the Queensguard around them will not know her weakness.

Slowly, Rhaenys nods. "Yes."


	14. Age 18

**Age 18**

“I swear, if you win the joust and do not crown her Queen of Love and Beauty, I will set you to guard the rankest, dirtiest part of the Red Keep I can find.”

Sandor ignores her, hand resting easily on the hilt of his sword. Over the past 4 years he’s grown accustomed to Rhaenys’ outbursts, no longer dignifying them with a response beyond a raised eyebrow these days. Rhaenys vaguely misses the scowls and grumblings she’d elicited in those first 6 months. She’s serious about this though.

“Sandor,” she says more firmly, “I see the way you look at Lady Sansa and I want you to be happy. Crown her.”

Sandor snorts. “Shouldn’t you be telling me to crown you?” he asks.

“Why would I do that?”

The pink spring’s rose woven in her dark hair catches his eye. “Ah, yes, how could I forget. You’ve already been crowned. Which one is it this time, the young wolf or is that from the Flower Knight?”

“Do you really care?” Rhaenys huffs. For two years Sandor has made snide comments about her flower crown, the one she dried and now hangs from her bedpost. She just knew he was waiting for her next name day tourney.

“No.” 

“I didn’t think so. Regardless, my crowning has no bearing on who  _ you _ crown when you win the joust and you seem quite taken with the Stark girl.”

“I am your guard,” Sandor says stiffly. “The Queensguard do not marry.”

Rhaenys snorts. “You and I both know that’s a shit excuse. You’re not a Knight, remember? So, you’re not an official member of the Queensguard for all you are my favorite. You can marry and I think Lady Sansa would be good for you.”

“I’m too old.”

“You’re twenty-one, only seven years her senior. Her parents have more years between them.”

“No highborn lady wants a dog like me.”

“I hate to be the one to shatter your delusion, Clegane, but  _ you _ are highborn and you are your father’s heir. By right of rank and honor, you are deserving of a highborn lady.”

Sandor shifts, expression darkening. “No.”

Rhaenys sets her chin. She knows her loyal bodyguard, has seen the way his gaze tracks the red haired daughter of Lord Stark and how the girl blushes and smiles whenever she catches him at it. Sansa isn’t ready for marriage but in two years she will be sixteen, a woman grown and ready to take a husband. Her parents are already looking at potential suitors according to Lyanna. Sandor is a potential suitor, if only he thought as highly of himself as she does. Given half the chance, Rhaenys would elevate him far above the mere heir of Clegane’s Keep. Still, to push Sandor is dangerous.

Rhaenys sighs. “Alright. Crown whomever you please, just remember what I said. Lord Stark wants someone good and kind and brave for his daughter. You are all those things and more and if you choose to pursue her when she is of age, I will support you.”

Sandor’s scowl deepens but Rhaenys sees the faint flush on his cheek. Privately, she considers this a win and lets it go.


	15. Age 18, Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look what Nonny gave me!!!  
> I was prompted "For your Queen what if when she’s eighteen she gets kidnapped by the foolish Mace, who is convinced by Littlefinger or Varys to start a war, to get her to marry her to Willa’s, who has no part in this, and while she’s reserved and joking under her gag she breaks into tears when Egg and Jae rescues her."

**Age 18, Part 2**

Everything hurts. _Warrior give me strength._

A single tear splatters against the cold stone floor. Somewhere nearby water trickles.

She tries to move her hands and binding presses against her wrists, trapping them behind her. Fire flickers in her chest, rage coursing through her veins. _How dare they! How_ dare _they!_

She rolls onto her back. A soft band wraps around her head, cloaking her in blackness. Her breath is ragged and she forces herself to bank the fire in her heart. Anger clouds judgement, Jamie once told her during her sword lessons. You cannot think when you are angry.

_Think_ . _What happened?_

She was with Ser Maryn Trant and Ser Mandon Moore. She’d...she’d wanted...Her head swims and nausea constricts her throat.

_Con--Concus--Maester Caleotte called it something_ ... _a head injury…_

She remembers blinding pain, starbursts exploding behind her eyes.

She thinks...Ser Mandon might have shouted?

Bile rises up her throat and she vomits, twisting so the mess splatters against the flagstone.

She coughs and wretches and once she’s done she rolls away as best she can, trying to escape the stink. She bumps into something rough, wood maybe?

Rhaenys doesn’t know how long she lays there. She doesn’t know if she is awake the whole time.

Something creaks. 

Rhaenys tenses. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

"Your Majesty? Oh my gods, your Majesty!” 

Gentle hands pull her up, leaning her gently back against a wall. Careful fingers pull at her blindfold, easing it over her head.

Light pierces her eyes and Rhaenys gags, nausea swamping her. She turns away, dry heaving. Someone pulls her hair back, gentle hands rubbing her back.

“Gods,” the voice whispers. “Your Majesty, what are you doing here?”

Rhaenys looks up, squinting. “Margaery?”

Margaery Tyrell’s concerned blue eyes peer down at her, her elegant hands supporting her.

“What--what are you doing here?”

“Your Majesty, you’re in Highgarden…”

“What?”

“You’ve been missing three days. How did you--?”

“Margaery?” A new voice calls.

A vaguely masculine shape clatters down the steps. 

She’s in a cellar, Rhaenys realizes, dark and cold, the space filled with barrels stamped with the Tyrell rose. 

Loras Tyrell’s face emerges from the shadows, frowning down at them. “Margaery, what--?”

Margaery whirls. “Get grandmother!”

Loras turns on his heel, obedience without question.

Margaery turns back to Rhaenys. She pulls a small, thin dagger from beneath her skirts and cuts the binding from Rhaenys’ wrists. 

Rhaenys slumps forward, shoulders aching. She rubs her wrists, angry red and purple circles pressed into her skin. She looks at the younger girl, breathing heavy. “How...How you…”

Her tongue is too fat, it won't form words.

Margaery seems to understand. “I heard a noise,” she says, “and I was curious.”

Rhaenys licks her lips and tastes salt from the tears trickling down her cheeks. “Liar.”

“It is unwise to lie to the queen,” Margaery answers, concern and innocence a beautiful mask on her face.

“That is not an answer,” Rhaenys snaps, patience nonexistent. Margaery still holds her little knife, almost too short to be called a dagger. It’s barely four inches, an elegant lady’s stiletto. Still, the point looks sharp and the edge cut through her bindings like water.

Rhaenys lunges, snatching the knife from her hand. Margaery cries out. Rhaenys pins her to the floor, knees on the younger girl’s shoulders. She presses the blade’s age against her throat.  “Tell me the truth,” she snarls. “How did you find me?”

Margaery swallows, fear flickering in her clear blue eyes. “I--Father--He said not to come down here and I--I was curious--”

“You don’t know why I’m here?”

“N-no!”

“Where is here?”

“Highgarden!”

_Highgarden. Still in the Seven Kingdoms._

Rhaenys grabs Margaery’s arm, hauling the taller girl to her feet. She wraps an arm around her shoulders, back to front, knife poised over her heart. “Take me to the ravens.”

Adrenaline pulses through her veins as they shuffle through the winding, twisting halls of Highgarden. Twice she pulls them back into an alcove to avoid guards, her hand clamping over Margaery’s mouth. “Say a word,” she hisses, “and you’re dead. I swear by all the gods.”

She shoves Margaery through the door of the aviary. Ravens in their cages watch them with clever black eyes. Rolls of parchment wait for messages in a small wooden box on a desk. 

Rhaenys releases Margaery, pushing her towards the desk, knifepoint pressing into her spine. “You’re going to write a message," she says, ignoring the ache in her head and the tremble in her voice. 

Margaery turns, tears streaking her lovely face, eyes red rimmed. _Gods, even crying she’s beautiful_.

“What do you want me to write?”

“Write,” Rhaenys licks her lips, “write ‘Tyrells took me to Highgarden’.”

“Your Majesty, please,” Margaery whimpers. “Please, there must be a mistake. My family--”

Rhaenys presses the knife into Margaery’s sternum, a tiny drop of blood swelling against her creamy skin. “Write the damn message.”

Margaery sobs and her hand shakes but she writes the message and melts the green wax with its shimmering gold flakes onto paper. She sniffles as she presses Rhaenys’ signet ring, the one with the three-headed Targaryen dragon encircled by a crown, into the wax and ties it onto the leg of a glossy black raven.

The raven’s tail feathers just clear the window when the door to the aviary crashes open. Loras Tyrell charges into the room, sword drawn. “Release my sister!” he cries. 

Rhaenys whirls, pulling Margaery with her, putting the taller girl between her and threat. “You’re too late! Even if you kill me, my mothers and my brothers will be here soon and that will be the end of House Tyrell.”

“Well,” a new voice says from the door, “if we’re all done being dramatic.”

An older woman, wearing a blue headdress that went out of fashion twenty years ago, steps from behind Loras. She watches Rhaenys holding a knife to Margaery’s throat with impassive, faded brown eyes.

“Grandmother,” Margaery says.

“Lady Olenna,” Rhaenys says, peering around Margaery.

Lady Olenna smiles. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t curtsey, your Majesty, but you seem to have my granddaughter at the point of a blade.”

“And I will continue to have her at the point of a blade until such time as I feel safe.”

“You are safe, your Majesty. We have no intent to hurt you here.”

“And yet I woke in your seller, bound and blinded, after being taken from the Red Keep.”

Lady Olenna’s eyebrows draw together. “A misunderstanding, I’m sure.”

Rhaenys swallows. Her whole body shakes with exhaustion. Her eyes sting and her head swims. She needs to sleep. She needs a maester. 

Rhaenys keeps Margaery close as she is escorted to the great hall of Highgarden. She ascends the steps to the Rose Throne, a great golden seat fashioned like a rose in full bloom. Were Rhaenys in a better frame of mind she might think it beautiful.

There is a fort on the border between The Reach and Crownlands. Once her raven reaches the Red Keep, her family will send a raven to the fortress. It’s less than a day’s ride from there to Highgarden.

She holds onto that knowledge as she sits on the Rose Throne and waits, holding Margaery firmly between herself and the Tyrells. 

When a battalion of soldiers in Targaryen red and black burst through the doors, Rhaenys is shaking. At their head is a young man with white-blond hair and furious amethyst eyes. 

Rhaenys rises on wobbly legs. "Brother."

Aegon strides across the hall to wrap Rhaenys in his strong arms. She collapses against him, burying her face in his chest.

"Shh," Aegon croons. "I've got you." He pets her hair. "Arrest them!" His voice echoes through the hall. The hiss of steal and shouting of men fill the large stone room.

Rhaenys jerks back. "Wait!"

The soldiers turn, Loras and Margaery and Olenna held tight.

Aegon frowns down at her. "Rae?"

"Lady Margaery and Ser Loras are innocent," she declares, voice ringing through the silence like the crack of a whip. "They found me and released me. Take Mace Tyrell but Lady Margaery, Ser Loras and Lady Olenna will be my special guests in King's Landing."

Aegon turns, blocking the hall from Rhaenys' sight. He peers into her violet eyes with his own. "Rae, are you sure?"

Rhaenys meets his gaze with fire. "Yes," she hisses. "A dragon loves his rose."

"Not if the rose draws dragon's blood," he hisses back.

"That particular rose did not."

It has been a grueling twelve hours. Rhaenys has sat on the Rose Throne, unresting for what feels like an eternity. But it has given her time to think.

She does not understand the Tyrell's motive for her kidnapping. It would have been so easy, once her escape was discovered, to take her again. She is one young woman with a single shirt stiletto. She posed no real threat, not even to Margaery. And yet Lady Olenna sat in the hall, sipping tea and reading a book. The old woman even took a nap. Twice she stopped Ser Loras from rising, hand on his sword.

Rhaenys does not know what the Tyrells are playing at but The Reach produces 45% of the grain in the Seven Kingdoms. She cannot lose The Reach and so she cannot kill the Tyrells.

But Mace…

The Lord of Highgarden is hers, House be damned. He ordered everyone away from the cellar where she was held. He _knew_ she was down there. 

Rhaenys would have his _hide_.


	16. Age 18, Part 3

**Age 18, Part 3**

“Do not let your pride condemn you, Lord Tyrell.” Her voice echoes through the silent Hall like the slither of scales on stone. The court watches, breaths bated at the spectacle. 

Lord Mace Tyrell quivers on the floor before the dais, rumpled and dirty from his time in the cells beneath the Red Keep. He cannot meet her gaze, pale brown eyes fixed on the flagstones.

"All I want is a name.” She leans forward, knuckles white on the arms of her throne. Mace Tyrell shrinks, as if he feels the fire in her eyes. “Mercy for a name.”

Mace Tyrell flinches at her voice, visibly quaking, manacles clinking. "It--it was--it--" he stutters, unable to force his tongue to form the words.

"The name or your life," Rhaenys snarls, patience dwindling fast.

"Petyr Baelish!"

* * *

 

Uncle Jamie drags Petyr Baelish from his brothels and throws him to the stone before her Iron Throne. Rhaenys has never seen Jamie Lannister murderous before and she revels in his fury.

Baelish struggles to his feet, lavish clothes torn and streaked with mud. 

Uncle Jamie stands behind him, hand on his sword, green eyes hard. “We found him attempting to flee by ship,” he says. 

“Thank you, Ser Jamie. Your loyalty and swift dispension of justice will be rewarded.”

Uncle Jamie bows, but he does not move, attention zeroing on Baelish. 

Rhaenys straightens on her throne, squaring her shoulders as she eyes the prisoner. This is the man who took her. This is the man who paid See Maryn Trant to murder Ser Mandon Moore and then murdered Trant in turn. This is the man who thought nothing of shoving her into a cellar. This is the man whose actions caused a riot that resulted in the deaths of 103 men and women and 37 children.

“Lord Baelish,” her voice rings clear and true, “you have been accused of high treason. How do you answer?”

Baelish looks around wildly, desperately searching for a friendly face, but he is from a Lesser House, a new House with no allies by marriage or blood. He stands alone in an apathetic sea, uncaring of his pain, his fear. “I-I’m innocent!” he cries, turning to desperately throw himself before her. “I’m innocent, your Grace! I have served faithfully, advised you well! What would I gain from taking you?”

Rhaenys’ eyes narrow. “You have done none of what you claim. You scheme and you lie and you accrue power for personal gain. Name your co-conspirators and perhaps you can keep your life.”

What color is left drains from Baelish’s face but he keeps his lips pressed firmly closed.

Rhaenys sighs. "If you will not speak, We will discover the answers for ourselves. See Jamie, take him to the cells."

She turns, striding from the dais, ignoring the whimpering protests of a condemned man. A glance to the shadow behind her throne and Varys slides into step beside her. She waits until they are through the hidden door behind her throne and in the Small Council's Chambers before she turns to the eunuch.

"Varys," she says, voice soft, "you would tell me were I leading our country to ruin, right?"

Varys' dark eyes soften. "Yes, your Majesty, I would."

Rhaenys nods. When she was sixteen Varys had come to her and told of his part in Robert's Rebellion, how he had orchestrated the coup to unseat the Mad King. He had expressed his sincere regret of her father's demise and true belief that his actions were necessary to serve Westeros.

It had taken a great deal of time for Rhaenys to come to terms with Varys' treachery but she believes him. The eunuch's only wish is to serve Westeros and her people. He has no desire for riches or power. Of the members of her Small Council, she trusts his words above all others.

"Search his papers, his ledgers, everything," she says. "Let no stone be unturned. I want names."

Varys bows. "As you wish, your Grace."

Rhaenys dismisses him with a nod, slipping into her seat at the Council table once she is alone.

Something sharp digs into her ribs and Rhaenys tugs the small, Valyrian steel dagger from her belt, relieving the pain of the crossguard jabbing her side. She stares at the velvet wrapped hilt.

Three weeks. Three weeks since she woke, bound and blinded, in the cellars of Highgarden. Lady Olenna, Ser Loras, and Lady Margaery are still guests of the Red Keep, Ser Barristan coordinating their escorts. All three Tyrells visit Mace once a day and they agreed without protest when Rhaenys suggested Lord Tyrion be given the running of Highgarden during such trying times.

Rhaenys doesn't believe for a moment that Mace Tyrell plotted against her beyond agreeing to the kidnapping. He is too flighty, too imbecilic to plot or scheme or conspire. He was brought into this bed of vipers as a convenient scapegoat. Well, she won't allow that. Justice must be dispensed fairly.

The door to the Small Council creaks open. Rhaenys straightens in her seat but it is only Ser Jamie.

“Uncle,” she greets him with a tired smile. 

Ser Jamie does not return her smile. His green eyes are dark and tired. His golden head hangs. “Your Majesty,” he says, deep voice reverberating through the chamber, “I have come to give my resignation from your Queensguard.”

Rhaenys shoots to her feet. “What?”

“I have failed you, your Majesty. I am no longer fit to serve in your Queensguard. It is time I take my leave and return to Casterly Rock.”

"Please," Rhaenys whispers, voice breaking, tears clouding her vision. "Please don't leave me."

She can't lose Uncle Jamie, she  _ can't _ .

"Yo-you're the only one I can trust," she hiccups wetly. "Yo-you and Sandor. My Q-Queensguard, they're all recommended by lords I don't know and I h-have to accept least I o-ffend so-someone and you're th-the only ones I c-can trust. P-please don't leave me."

She trusts Uncle Jamie because his steadfast loyalty and service is all that keeps them from annihilation. Without him, Tywin Lannister would have turned on them long ago. He keeps her family safe by sword and by word. They would be lost without him.

She trusts Sandor because he serves by his own choice. He is not bound by an oath conceived in a time when a man's honor meant more than gold. He chooses to stay by her side and he is a hound. A Hound will never lie.

She trusts them. She needs them. If either were to leave...she quakes at the thought. Most nights she wakes screaming, unable to catch her breath. All that calms her racing heart is the knowledge that at least one of them is right outside her door.

Rhaenys buries her face in her hands and cries. She sobs and shakes, all the tension and fear she kept bottled and hidden finally releasing in a flood.

Strong, gentle arms wrap around her torso, pulling her into a warm, solid chest. Rhaenys clutches Jamie's tunic, crying into the soft fabric. A large hand smooths over her dark hair and Jamie's voice rumbles in his chest. "Shhh," he whispers, "I've got you. It's alright. I've got you.”


	17. Age 18, Part 4

**Age 18, Part 4**

Jon finds her in the highest tower of the Red Keep. Balerion’s purrs rumble through the empty space, reverberating off the flagstone. His eerie yellow eyes narrow as Jon closes the door. 

Rhaenys’ lips twitch. Balerion has never liked Jon. Wolf versus cat, Aegon jokes. 

Jon settles onto the floor beside her window seat, leaning against the wall, hands in his lap. His dark curls are tousled and damp, gray eyes fixed on a spot somewhere on the far wall. “I was in the North.”

Rhaenys turns away, staring out at the sun setting over the godswood. “I know.”

“I came as soon as I heard.”

“I know.”

Jon turns his mournful gray eyes to her. “I should have been here.”

Rhaenys meets his gaze with a small smile. “You should have been exactly where you were.”

“I should have-”

“ _ No _ ,” Rhaenys snaps. “None of this was your fault. I will not have you blaming yourself--you or Eggy or our mothers. It would have happened regardless of anything you did.”

Jon sighs, head thumping back against the wall. “I know.”

The silence turns comfortable, the warm summer air ruffling Rhaenys’ hair. Finally, she turns her gaze back to Jon. “How is the North?”

Jon snorts. “Cold. Even in the midst of summer, it is cold.”

Rhaenys smiles. “That’s what you get for being at Castle Black. What’s it like?”

“I’m learning a great deal from Lord Mormont. And Uncle Aemon is...well…”

A chill runs down Rhaenys’ spine. “Is he...like grandfather?”

“No,” Jon sighs, “but he is aging.”

Rhaenys nods, tension easing. “Good, good.” Her greatest nightmare is a Mad Targaryen. She fears it more than the nightmares of being taken. 

Jon must see her fear. “We need never fear him, Rhae,” he says. “I promise.”

She swallows. “Thank you.” 

Balerion’s tale tail twitches against her thigh and she buries her hand in his silk-soft fur. It reminds her of Castle Blacks’s greatest export. “How is the fur trade?” she asks.

Jon’s face flushes bright pink but his voice is steady when he answers, “Going well. The Wildlings brought in 20 pelts from those great white bears just before I came here.”

“Oh,” Rhaenys breaths, eyes sparkling, “those are  _ beautiful _ . But,” she frowns, “that’s not what brings the color to your cheeks.”

Jon clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable. 

She knows that look. Jon used to get that look whenever he saw--oh, she can't remember the girl's name now. She was one of the Frey girls, come to court at Elia's invitation to join Rhaenys' Young Court. Lovely featured with big doe eyes and amber hair. The only pretty Frey girl, from what Rhaenys understands. It was only after little Arya, seeing her cousin's longing, pointed out that the girl was as stupid as a post and as shallow as a puddle that Jon finally stopped looking so forlorn every time her impending marriage to a hedgeknight was mentioned.

Rhaenys grins at the memory and leans forward. "What's her name?"

"What's whose name"? Aegon asks, shoving open the tower door. He steps inside, surveying his siblings. Spotting a fat embroidered cushion near Jon, he plops down with careless grace, white-blond curls bouncing.

Jon blushes to the roots of his hair, furiously avoiding either of his siblings' purple gazes. 

"Jonny-boy fancies someone," Rhaenys teases.

"Ooh," Aegon looks at his brother, pale purple eyes sparkling eagerly, "who is it. C'mon, tell us."

"I'd rather be pecked to death by a flock of hummingbirds," he grumbles.

"This girl must be something special," Aegon needles. 

"I'll bet she's a Wildling."

Jon's face darkens to red. Aegon sees it and grins. "A Wildling, Jon? I'll bet she's something. I'll bet she--"

"It's not like that!" Jon snaps. "Ygritte--" Jon closes his eyes, realizing his mistake.

Rhaenys and Aegon exchange looks. "Ygritte," Rhaenys says, tasting the name on her tongue. It's different, foreign. She likes it. "What a lovely name. What's she like?"

Jon sighs, knowing the battle is lost. "She's second to Tormund Giantsbane, one of their chiefs. She's... she's," Jon stares into empty air, gray eyes shining at the memory. "She's _ beautiful _ , Rhae. Really. Her hair is like fire and her eyes like the summer sky. And she's smart, smarter than me--"

"Like that's hard," Aegon mutters. Rhaenys shoots him a dirty look. 

Jon ignores his brother, too transfixed by the thought of the woman he loves. "She's been teaching me woodcraft, how to survive in the wilds of the Far North. She's a warrior. I think she'll be the Wilding Queen one day, I really do."

"Jon," Rhaenys says slowly, "have you slept with her yet?"

"What?" Jon sputters, pulled from his reverie. He turns, scandalized, to her. "Of course not! I wouldn't--"

"I need to know," Rhaenys cuts through his protests. "I need to know if and when you bed her. Eggy and I need to know if we will have bastard nieces and nephews running around."

"No," Jon says firmly. "No, you don't need to worry about that."

"I also," Rhaenys continues, "need to know, as your Queen, if my brother, a Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, wants or intends to marry a girl who is, essentially, a Princess of the Wildlings." 

"I--I--"Jon stutters, eyes wide. "I don't know."

"Would it even be possible?" Aegon asks, glancing between his sister and brother.

Rhaenys shrugs. "I don't know. It depends on a lot of different things. What I do know, is that I will not ask you to marry for politics before I myself make that sacrifice," she glances at Aegon, "either of you."

Aegon looks away. He spends time every day walking with Lady Margaery in the gardens of the Red Keep. Varys' little birds flit through the bushes and listen to what they say and what Lady Margaery says once he is gone. 

The younger girl is ambitious. Rhaenys does not doubt her affection for Aegon but she cannot forget being tied in the cellars of Highgarden. Only her surety in her brother's love keeps Rhaenys from barring the alliance. Aegon will never move against her, just as Jon will never turn on her. These are the steadfast stones upon which Rhaenys has built her life. 

It is with this knowledge that Rhaenys encourages her brother's pursuit of Lady Margaery. Jon, however…

Jon is a free man, living in the wilds of the North's northernmost border, choosing to gain experience by staying with the Garrison of Castle Black, the furthest outpost before the land belongs to the Children of the Forest and the nomadic Wildling tribes. He spends his days surrounded by a strange mix of criminals and second sons who took vows of brotherhood and are entrusted with promoting trade with the Seven Kingdoms' northern neighbors. 

Rhaenys does not know what Jon's plans are in choosing to live in the coldest, roughest part of their world, but she knows he has one and she is willing to let it play out.

The knowledge that Jon might one day wish to marry his Wildling love, is...interesting.

_ Perhaps, _ Rhaenys muses, watching her brother's as they pull out a deck of cards and begin a game,  _ perhaps a trip to Castle Black is in order _ .


	18. Age 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have made this note in the previous chapter and for that I apologize. 
> 
> Blanket statement: The Others do not exist in this universe. The Night King does not exist in this universe. The Wall does not exist in this universe. This results in a very different relationship with the Wildlings. There is open trade, there is no war. The Wildlings are nomadic tribes that live beyond the North’s northernmost border in what is commonly called Wildling Country or the Wilds. Castle Black acts as the northernmost outpost and while The Watch does guard the border they also facilitate the crossing of Wildling caravans coming to trade with the Seven Kingdoms.
> 
> Thanks for coming to my TED Talk.

**Age 19**

A year to the day. 

Lyanna creeps into her bed as the moon rises, Elia following soon after. They wrap their arms around her and let her cry. 

A year to the day since she was taken. A year to the day since she woke up bound and blinded. A year to the day since she sat, shaking, on the Rose Throne praying to any deity listening that her family would find her soon.

Varys finds her curled with Balerion in the window seat of her chambers, staring out over the godswood as the sun crests the trees. 

Balerion purrs, deep and rumbling, rubbing his cheek against her hand. Rhaenys turns glassy eyes to her spymaster.

He bows. “Your Grace, I have news.”

“What is it?”

“We have the conspirators.”

Ice races down Rhaenys’ spine. The old fire flares in her belly and she squares her shoulders. She’s done moping. She’s done with nightmares and the constant guards and the dagger beneath her pillow. She’s done fearing her own shadow beneath a mask of ice.

“Name them.”

Varys sighs but he meets her eyes when he says, “Roose Bolton, Walder Frey, Robert Baratheon and,” Varys sighs, folding his hand in the sleeves of his robes, speaking the name as if being dragged from his lips, “Tywin Lannister.”

A thrill races through her.  _ Tywin Lannister _ .

Varys must see something in her face. He clears his throat. “There’s more, your Majesty.”

Rhaenys doesn’t like that look in Varys’ eyes. “What’s wrong?”

Varys breathes in deep, lets air out slowly. “Evidence has been uncovered that your aunt and uncle are still alive.”

Rhaeys shoots to her feet, Balerion falling from her lap in an undignified heap. The great black cat yowls, offended, but she doesn’t hear.  _ Daenerys. Viserys. Alive. _


	19. Age 19, Part 2

**Age 19, Part 2**

Elia sits heavily back in her chair, rubbing her face tiredly. “You are sure?”

Varys nods, hands folded in the wide lavender sleeves of his overrobe. “Yes, your highness.” 

“Thank you, Varys,” Rhaenys says, nodding to him. 

The eunuch bows and leaves the Small Council chamber. 

Rhaenys watches Elia’s and Lyanna’s faces, Lyanna’s especially. Her mother looks worn, older than she should be, golden hair threaded with grey. 

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” Lyanna says finally. She glances at Elia. “You did warn me.”

Elia’s mouth twitches. “I did.”

Lyanna turns to Rhaenys. “I’m sorry, Rhae. I feel this is partially my fault. I insisted on Robert’s pardon and now he plots against you.”

Rhaenys reaches for Lyanna, gripping her hand and squeezing. “It’s not your fault, Mother, truly it’s not.”

Lyanna gives her a small smile. “I love you, dearheart.”

“I love you, too.” Rhaenys looks between her mothers. “Do you have suggestions?”

Elia glances at Lyanna. “I hate to say this, my love, but Robert Baratheon must die.”

Sadness darkens Lyanna’s gray eyes. “I know. He squandered his second chance. There can be no third.”

“And what of Tywin Lannister?”

Elia swallows. “I don’t know.”

“Treason demands death.”

Rhaenys throws herself back into her chair in frustration. “And sentencing Tywin Lannister to death will alienate his children. I  _ cannot _ risk losing any of them.” She stands, pacing the length of the room. 

Elia and Lyanna watch, silent. 

Rhaenys stops, gripping the back of her chair. “I need him to die,” she says to the deathly silent room. “I need him to die and it cannot be by our hands. He needs to die so his children may be free of him and loyal only to me.”

Elia and Lyanna exchange looks. 

“There’s more,” Rhaenys sighs. “Viserys and Daenerys are alive.”

Elia’s mouth drops.

“Are you sure?” Lyanna breaths.

Rhaenys nods.

“What are we going to do?” Elia asks quietly.

Rhaenys frowns. “What do you mean, ‘what are we going do’? They are family! They are my aunt and uncle.  _ We _ are going to  _ find them _ .”

The declaration rings through the room but Elia closes her eyes, shaking her head sadly. When she finally meets her daughter’s eyes her gaze is shadowed, as if a great weight rests in her heart. “No, my darling. We cannot. No one can know Viserys and Daenerys are alive.”

“Mother, what--? Why?”

“Rhae,” Lyanna says softly, “Viserys has a stronger claim to the throne. He is Targaryen twice over and male.”

“Fuck that,” Rhaenys snarls, expression twisting into something almost inhuman. Elia knows the look. Rhaegar used to look just the same when in a rage.

“Yes,” Lyanna agrees with a laugh, “fuck that. But it is the way of our world. No one but we three and your brothers can know or other plotters might emerge from the woodwork to steal your crown.”

Rhaenys snorts. “They’ve tried and failed twice.”

“And third time's the charm,” Elia says. 

Rhaenys rolls her eyes. “I hate that idiom.”

“Regardless, it holds true. Your brothers and us. We keep this in our family.”

“Don’t forget Varys.”

Lyanna winces. “And Varys.” She looks between Elia and Rhaenys. “Can we trust him?”

“We can trust him,” Rhaenys answers, strong and sure. She has trusted Varys since she was 16 and he told her the truth. 

Rhaenys turns, beginning to pace as she talks. “Fine,” she says, “we don’t bring them home. But I will not leave them alone in the world. We must send someone to them, to keep them safe.”

Elia nods. “Alright. Since we are trusting Varys, we will ask him to send someone to Viserys and Daenerys. In the meantime, there is the problem of the Lannisters.”

Rhaensy stops in the oddle of the room, head tilting back, eyes closed. “Yes,” she sighs, “there is the problem of the Lannisters.”

 


	20. Age 19, Part 3

**Age 19, Part 3**

The news comes as Rhaenys signs the arrest warrants for Robert Baratheon, Walder Frey, and Roose Bolton.

Rhaenys rises, transfixed by Jamie’s bloodshot eyes and tear streaked face. “Uncle Jamie…”

Jamie breathes in deep. “Father…”

“What happened?”

“Father died…” Jamie looks away, hiding his face. Rhaenys waits, letting him gather himself. When he turns back, his green eyes are overbright but dry. “Your Grace, by your leave, I will return to Casterly Rock.”

Rhaenys steps from her desk to wrap her arms around him. “Of course.” 

Jamie leans into her for a moment then pulls back. “Thank you, your Grace.”

Rhaenys smiles weakly up at him. “Our prayers and hearts are with you in this trying time. Go. Return to Casterly Rock until you are ready to come back to Us. You are the Captain of my Queensguard and you are needed.”

Jamie blinks and a single tear rolls down his cheek. “The captain? But Ser Barristan--”

“Has retired,” Rhaenys says. “You are my captain, but you cannot lead my most trusted guards consumed by grief. Pay your respects and then come home.”

Jamie nods, blond hair flopping forward. “Of course,” he says, stepping back. With a boy and “Your Grace,” he leaves her study. 

Rhaenys watches him go, anxiety and relief warring in her heart.

* * *

She finds Elia in her and Lyanna's private salon, reading through a handful of papers. “Hello, Mother.”

Elia glances up, smiling. “Hello, Daughter.”

Rhaenys takes the seat across from her, leaning back in her chair. “What are you reading?”

“Letters from the family.”

Rhaenys straightens, trying to keep her voice calm. “The family?”

“Yes, the family.”

“How are they?”

“They’re doing quite well. Obara has been promoted to Second General and Nymeria and Arianne are dancing circles around the boys, as usual. Sarella writes that she’s enjoying studying with the maesters, though they don’t realize they teach a girl.”

Rhaenys swallows. “And Tyene?”

Elia glances up, something dark flickering in her eyes. “Travelling,” she says, voice too steady, too calm. “Heading west, last I heard. You know how she is.”

A chill sinks into her bones. Yes, she knows how Tyene is. The hidden snake. The venomous viper. Their family’s assassin.

“Yes,” Rhaenys breaths, “I know how she is.”

 


	21. Age 19, Part 4

** Age 19, Part4 **

"You are not my favorite person today," Rhaenys snarls, furiously sifting through stacks of parchment.

Aegon smirks, sprawling lazily across her purple brocade chaise. “I’m not your favorite person on any day.”

Rhaenys lips twitch even through the cloud of her anger. “You’re my favorite person any day you are at Dragonstone.”

“You wound me deeply, sister dear.”

“I wound you as a feather cuts through armour.”

Aegon sits up, studying her with his pale purple eyes, so much like and unlike her own. “You seem unhappy.”

Her hands slam onto the desk. “Really?” she cries. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

“Rhaenys,” Aegon’s baritone voice rumbles, “what’s wrong?”

Looking at Aegon who will one day be her Hand, her most trusted of all advisors, Rhaenys feels all the fight flee her body. She swallows hard, mouth suddenly I dry. “I think…”

Aegon waits, leaning forward. When it becomes clear she cannot bring herself to speak, he stands. “Rhae, what happened”

She can’t say it, shouldn’t say it. “I think Tywin Lannister died by viper venom.”

Aegon’s shoulders, held rigid in his soft tunic, loosened. “Is that all that bothers you?”

“What do you mean that’s all?” Rhaenys shrieks, voice rising to a pitch that causes Aegon to wince.

“I mean,” Aegon says slowly, voice dropping lower, "that the man was old, his heart failed, and our family is better for it. And so is his."

Rhaenys looks away, licking her lips. The truth comes from the mouths of babes, Varys once told her, and Aegon, while a man mostly grown, still has the round, fresh face of youth and perhaps that qualifies him as a child. Regardless, he is right. Best for all that Tywin Lannister died before she was forced to sign his arrest warrant. Better still he died in his own bed at Casterly Rock. All that is left is to pray Robert Baratheon, held in the dungeons of the Red Keep for a fortnight now, won't name the Lannister patriarch his coconspirator during his trial on the morn.


End file.
